Alice took the manuscript from Hank and held it in both hands, feeling its power. She didn’t know where it would lead Joe, but she knew that if she gave it to him, it would guide him to a place he needed to go.
“Look,” Hank said, “I hope you don’t have to give your story to him for a long time. You’ll know when the moment’s right.”
As he walked Alice to the door, he took her arm. “Alice.” Hank cleared his throat and blinked repeatedly, trying to stem the tears. “I can’t tell you what a joy this has been. I always knew you were gifted.” He tapped the door frame. “I’ll see you soon.”
From Hank and Joe’s, Alice headed straight to Santa Barbara Bindery only to find it closed for the holiday season. She put her face to the window. Inside, it looked more like an exhibit, a display of a workshop rather than a workshop itself. She slipped an envelope holding her cat flash drive into the mail slot, with a note explaining that she wanted this one in a natural undyed leather, as though without the red it was not one of her love stories. The envelope made a soft tap as it hit the floor. However this story might affect Joe, it was the last one she would write.
35
A Sleeve of Many Colors
Howard bound Joe’s book in record time, calling Alice two days later to report that it was ready.
“Figured if you dropped it over the holidays, it must be pretty important.” Howard held out her book, cloaked in a multicolored sleeve knit from yarn of red, blue, green, yellow, and purple. The colors organically interwove in a pattern that looked like spines on a shelf. “It was so bland, Greta wanted to give it a little beauty.”
As always, the pride they took in their work reminded her of Duncan. It had been two months since he appeared on her porch, and she could still feel his lips on hers, the way they were chapped, that detail almost more intimate than the kiss itself. Then she remembered that the bridesmaid had felt the pressure of his lips too, and the sense of betrayal rose to the surface again. It wasn’t that he’d kissed the bridesmaid, it was that there would always be a bridesmaid, a writer with a book to bind, an event planner with a special order who had their eye on him. No matter how much she missed him, she needed to protect herself.
“It’s perfect,” Alice said, holding out her credit card. Howard waved it off.
“This one’s on the house. Happy holidays, Alice.” Alice’s eyes stung, and Howard laughed. “Now, now, don’t get all sentimental. I’ll be charging you for the next, don’t you worry.” Only there wouldn’t be a next.
As Alice was walking out of the shop, he called to her. “You sure you don’t want another copy of that one?”
“I’m sure,” she said.
Alice unlocked her bike from the streetlamp. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and she reached to retrieve it. As soon as she saw Hank’s name, she knew. Fate had an ironic sense of timing, so cruel it would have been unrealistic on the page.
She hesitated before she picked up. When she heard Joe’s voice, her intuition became certainty.
“Alice,” he half whispered. She wanted to hang up, to throw her phone into the street where a car could run over it, but she stayed on the line. “I’m sorry to call from Hank’s phone. I didn’t have your number in my phone. I guess we’ve never exchanged numbers. If we had, I would have added you to my text yesterday. Maybe it’s a cop-out, I couldn’t imagine conversation after conversation, saying the same thing. But you weren’t in my phone, so—” As he continued to ramble, he found new ways to talk around Hank’s death.
“When’s the funeral?” she asked.
“Saturday. No funeral. Just a gathering at the house. I hope you’ll come.”
“I’ll be there. Joe? I’m so, so sorry.” Alice wanted to say more. From experience, she knew that no other words mattered. People had a way of comparing loss, as if the fact that their spouses or parents or siblings had died would make you feel better about your own tragedy. Over time, Alice realized that her father’s death could unite her with others who had suffered a similar loss, but not because the deaths were the same. The bond lay in the fact that no one else could understand precisely how you felt, not even your own family. Although Alice imagined Joe must be confused, overwhelmed, and empty, the reality of how his life would change not yet settled in, she could not actually empathize with him. Only sympathize, and who ever wanted someone’s sympathy?
“I’ll see you Saturday,” Joe said, hanging up.
Alice found Joe and Hank’s book, still tucked into that too bright sleeve in her messenger bag. The yarn was slightly scratchy. She took the sleeve off. The smooth book was cooler than her skin. She held it to her until she could not distinguish its temperature from her own.
Her back pocket buzzed again. Hank’s name lit up on the screen.I forgot to mention it’s a luau. Hank never did meet a Hawaiian shirt he didn’t like. See you around five.
Alice responded simply withokay, no punctuation, for a period seemed too cold, an exclamation mark too perky, an emoji of any kind too false. Once she saw that he’d received her text, she deleted both, so that the last one she would ever receive from Hank’s number was when he finished reading her story:It’s perfect.
36
A Synonym for Birth
Up and down Hank and Joe’s street, every parking spot was taken. A chorus of voices greeted Alice as she approached their house. Inside, the front room was crammed with people in jeans, sundresses, and brightly colored shirts. She recognized a few teachers from her middle school, a handful of fellow graduates whose names she’d forgotten. Alice wasn’t about to wear a bikini top or a grass skirt, so she’d selected the most floral dress she owned, a pink wraparound with white lilies that she’d bought at Gabby’s behest. As she scanned the crowded living room, searching for someone she knew, she pulled at the bottom hem self-consciously. She hadn’t realized the dress was quite so short.
After some polite conversation with her former life sciences teacher, she spotted Joe alone on the back deck, leaning over the railing as he stared into the waterless riverbed below. She clutched her bag with the tan book and walked toward him.
“Alice,” he said, throwing his arms open to embrace her. Joe was wearing a fuchsia flowered shirt. “He always did love me in pink.” He smiled, finding two drinks on a tray, and giving one to Alice. It had a slice of pineapple and two maraschino cherries in it.
There were a million words of condolence Alice wanted to say, but that wasn’t what Joe wanted from her. Instead she held her glass to his. “To pink,” she said, wincing at the sweetness of tropical drink. It was worse than Gabby’s blue ladies.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Joe puckered. “What would you say to some of the good stuff?”
